


diamond and a tether

by scoobysaywhat



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alcohol, And That Is Okay, Car crash mentions, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Fix It Fic, IT Chapter Two Fix-It, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Minor Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, Multi, Nonbinary Stanley Uris, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stanley Uris Lives, Violent Thoughts, but i refuse to write porn so, descriptions of panic attacks, descriptions of violence, eddie just has a violent inner monologue, fire mentions, general it trauma talk, general nsfw sometimes, idk eddie has a dick sometimes he thinks with it, mentions of abuse, no real fire or car crashes, nsfw thoughts, violent descriptions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27045217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoobysaywhat/pseuds/scoobysaywhat
Summary: " It occurs to Eddie, with the force of a car crash, that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s tired of trying to talk about things. He’s tired of words sticking in his throat. He doesn’t want to. He wants to swerve, yank the steering wheel left, slam against a railing- off a cliff. He wants to dive down, head-first. Just to feel the sting of mangled bones, torn membrane, sliced-open veins and bursting blood vessels. To taste the acid of burning destruction. To make a mess. He’s always been a clean, safe, man. A tidy little boy. Don’t make a mess, Eddie. "----Or; Eddie Kaspbrak is in love, in LA, and scared out of his fucking mind. Luckily, Richie's a proven distraction from fear.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	1. hand fetishes over breakfast

\-----------------------------------------------------

Eddie must have fallen asleep on the plane, and stayed asleep in the taxi, because it feels like he blinks and wakes up facing the obnoxiously red trunk of the stupid sports car in the driveway. 

He knows where he is. He hadn’t dressed for the sweltering heat of California, even with the sun down. His shirt is sticking to his back, under his arms- to his stomach. He feels sweaty and sick and nervous, even though he shouldn’t be nervous. 

Because it’s just Richie. Just Richie’s stupid, huge looking house, and his ridiculous car. And, when he knocks, two suitcases at his feet, chest beginning to rattle- it’s just Richie who opens the door. 

\------------------------------------------------------

Eddie decides he hates the heat. 

A month in, and he’s already had to replace his entire wardrobe. Richie says it's his own fault for owning nothing but business attire and athleisure. He’s never taken so many showers in his life. 

“Come on, Eds- you used to take, like, seven hundred showers a day, dude,” Richie says around his mouthful of toast. 

Eddie winces, rolling his eyes. He kicks Richie under the counter and glares daggers at his smudged glasses. Richie grins at him and shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. It’s disgusting. He grimaces over the top of his coffee mug, but it only encourages the idiot, and soon Richie’s talking a hundred miles a minute with his mouth full. 

“-and wash your hands once every three minutes. You never even got dirt under your nails! It was like you were training to be a hand model-”

“What the fuck is a hand model?” Eddie interrupts, trying to swallow his laughter with his coffee. 

“A hand model! Like, holding things, taking hand stock photos for pervs to jerk it to-”

“You are disgusting! No one jerks off to hand photos, that’s just you-”

“People have foot fetishes, Eds Spagheds, what makes you think hands are any different?” 

This is a pointless, ridiculous argument, and Eddie scowls and huffs appropriately. It’s like this most mornings though, he thinks- and he’d rather they discuss hand fetishes over breakfast than doctors appointments, like he used to. He slumps a little into the chair and swings his feet- ‘accidentally’ connecting with Richie’s shins as much as he can. 

If he was honest, he’d take these kinds of mornings with Richie over any other kind, ever. The thought comes fast and crashes against his skull, bouncing back. He feels it in his chest and then feels the slight panic that comes after. His brows knot automatically and he slides his eyes to the floor. He can’t look at Richie while he thinks those kinds of things. Because it feels like suffocating- like drowning, only you’re two inches under the water, and you can feel the air on your fingers as you reach out, and you stay down anyway. 

That’s what Eddie had been nervous about. 

About that thing, that neither of them will mention. That they had spent the first two weeks dancing around until he got settled in and they had both realised they were the kings of suppressing emotions. That thing- in Derry. 

The way Eddie’s heart had flipped and his stomach had plummeted when he locked eyes with Richie across the Jade, and his entire body fizzed like a shaken bottle of Coke. In a way it hadn’t since he was seventeen, stripped to his underwear and standing on sun-warmed rock, watching Richie pretend to shove Bill forward and literally off the deep end, and some sick kind of jealousy would bubble in his veins. When he actually looks at him, it’s like someone’s just emptied a pack of mentos into his neck, and suddenly he’s exploding again. Loud and angry and spraying pent-up carbonised energy in every direction. Because Richie got so hot, he could put PornHub out of business. So hot, that when they arm wrestle, Eddie feels electric. White-hot and sparking. Shockwaves racing through his nerves so fast he’s convinced Richie can feel them too, through their tightly connected hands, and he feels dizzy with the rush of it. 

“What are you scowling at? Did I piss in the coffee pot by accident again?” Richie quips from across the table, head tilted so his curly bed head flops against the rims of his glasses, his foot trailing up Eddie’s calf casually, probably accidentally. 

He can feel the fizzing again. Bubbling. Sparking. Like he’s a rocket, and the countdown has started. Maybe the countdown started long ago- maybe that’s why he gets light headed when Richie reaches out and grabs his wrist, shaking it around.

“What?” Eddie asks with a glare, and yanks his hand back. “Nothing, asshole. At the disgusting mess you’re making. Don’t talk with your mouth full, you fucking pig. God, if I hadn’t met your parents, I’d think you grew up in the fucking wild.” 

“You see, Edward dearest, that’s just not true. I grew up in the wild, wild moors of York-”

He’s doing some stupid, old British accent, hand raised in the drama of it all, staring broodingly at the window. 

The sun’s already up, and it catches on Richie’s glasses. It seems to stroke his face- it’s long, scalding fingers curl around the rugged bump of his nose, sliding high up his cheeks. It creates a shadow at the bone, curls under his strong jaw. Everything’s defined and golden, although all of Richie’s high points are turning a raw-looking pink because he refuses to put sunscreen on his face, and Eddie must be after his job, because it’s pretty fucking funny of him to suggest it. He’s still handsome, even sunburned and irritating. And Eddie’s suddenly fixated on his jaw and his mouth. He watches his pink lips wrap around and spit out words he isn’t even listening to, feeling something terrible sweep through him when Richie closes his mouth for a second and his top teeth rest just inside his bottom lip. His overbite still prevents him from closing his mouth properly. God. 

Eddie swallows thickly against the heavy, clawing thing in his throat. He looks away and huffs and gets to his feet. Richie’s still monologuing in that stupid voice- it isn’t even good- as he flips him off. He can feel his pulse in his tongue. Whatever the hell that was, he couldn’t do it again. Not so openly. He was practically begging to be caught out.

That’s what he said every time, though. That he couldn’t do it again. As if he could stop, as if he ever stopped looking at Richie. 

He hates himself for it. It feels like the end of the world every time. It feels like being slammed face-first into concrete, leaving his ears ringing and the world wobbling in a disorientated flood of pain. He thinks it leaves nosebleed spots of blood all over his shirts. 

And he does it anyway, with the same kind of morbid, damaging fascination as when he used to poke his scrapes and bruises after a particularly good day with his friends. The shooting pain only made him more curious. Made him poke harder. Like the blue-purple skin was a challenge, and if he kept digging, he’d find something, or maybe someone would stop him first. 

Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for. For Richie to look up and catch him. To stop him. Before he’s blue-purple everywhere and ruining the balanced, easy way they live together now. 

He's thinking too much. Too hard. He can feel the anxiety building up in his stomach, stretching it's hooked claws up to scrape his ribcage, rattle the bone. He's too warm, the kind of sickening humid that makes him want to crawl out of his skin for relief. The bedsheet of Richie's spare room clings wetly to his clammy hands. He's sweating so much he's going to pass out, and he's only been awake for forty minutes. 

The anxious energy builds until he's fidgeting and uncomfortable. He reaches shakily for the water next to his bed and drains it, and his head is filled with images of the harrowing, erotic bob of Richie's Adams apple when he drinks his gross sparkling water. Eddie chokes and splutters until the man himself is standing in the doorway, concern pushing his lips into a thin line. 

"You good, Eds?" 

"Don't fuckin' call me that," he rasps, and then waves his hands. This is the last thing he needs. "I'm getting changed, go away." 

He reaches for his inhaler, resting on its side on the dresser, and Richie's gone when he looks up. He feels something sad wash over him before he starts sucking at the plastic. His eyes close against the pulse he can feel in his eyelids. 

Eddie's sitting up straight, breathing deeply, when Richie comes back. He's clutching a bottle of water in his hands, his face softer than it had seemed in the harsh sunlight a few minutes ago. He approaches the bed and sits down right next to Eddie. 

"Here," he says, handing him the water as his chest rattles on. 

Eddie grabs it and nods a thanks, and expects him to just go again. He doesn't know if he wants him to, but it's what he's expecting. But the bed doesn't shift with the loss of his weight. 

Because he doesn't just go again. 

He places his hand between Eddie's shoulders, and pats firmly enough to quell the gaspy coughing, and then rubs in slow, steady circles. Eddie's chest is still spasming and shaking. He's still wheezing into his inhaler. And Richie just stays, rubbing his back in stoic, uncharacteristic silence. 

Eddie thinks he's going to die. 

To be fair, he always thinks he's going to die when this happens, but this time it's different. It's a whole new death- brought on by the very knowledge that Richie's whole hand can practically span his shoulders. That it's that big. He's going to faint at the thought. 

He remembers thinking the same thing, when Richie did this the night he'd shown up on the doorstep, and Eddie had gotten so stressed that his chest had rattled like the chains on the ghosts in A Christmas Carol. He also remembers thinking that it was the sweetest thing in the world. The diligent, unmoving presence. Slowly dissolving the painful wheezing under his palm. 

He was obsessed with the idea of Richie's hands. Big knots of hard knuckle. A little rough, like used sandpaper. How unbelievably large they were. His fingers- god, his fingers-

Eventually, Eddie's chest quietens, and his breathing steadies. Richie doesn't move or talk for a little while, still rubbing. Eddie thinks maybe he should beg him to stop- or not stop, and keeping going forever- or move his hand and put the other one- 

"Brilliant Darth Vader impression, Eds. It's like I was Luke himself." 

And all of Eddie's loud thoughts crash and stumble over each other, until he splutters a surprised and deranged-sounding laugh. He's light headed from the breathing and so red in the face he can feel it. He's laughing so hard it's making it worse, jabbing one sharp elbow into Richie's ribs. Richie's laughing, too- that stupid donkey noise, his nose crinkling like tissue paper and his wide shoulders shaking. He has to take his glasses off to wipe away the tears, and suddenly all the tension in the room is drained, even though the air is unforgivingly heavy with suffocating humidity. 

The tension in Eddie, however, is not gone. It's worse. Like every hair on his body is stood to attention, just waiting for the word. For the movement. Every muscle is pulled taut with expectation, a build up of electricity before the fuse blows and sends sparks and crackling static everywhere. Like if he breathes in too deep, if his knee bumps against Richie's one more time, he'll fly off the handle. He'll crash the car he's been driving and trying desperately to keep on the road. He'll spin off, slamming right into his best friend's chest, slamming right into his mouth. 

He goes for a run, to try and ease some of it, but it doesn't really help. When he's running- even as the sun beats down on him like some crazy comic book villain with a rubber mallet- he can forget most things. He can forget the fact that he wasn't allowed to run when he was younger, or the bitter taste of dissolving fake medication. He can forget that he knows his asthma is made up and what's really crippling him is anxiety. He just focuses on the steady thump of his sneakers against the sidewalk, the road so hot that he can see the steam rising off the black tar. 

But what he can never seem to forget, no matter how fast he runs, or how far he gets, is Richie. And he doesn't really want to forget Richie. Eddie's forgotten Richie once already, and the idea of doing it again makes him want to stick his hand in a blender. 

What he'd really like is to not think about him for thirty minutes. 

It seems impossible. Even over the music in his earphones and his pulse in his head, he can't stop. Richie. Richie Richie Richie. His hair just begging to be messed with and pulled and tugged. The impressive width of his chest and the thick dark brown hair that grew there, that Eddie hadn't stopped thinking about since the day he'd walked in to Richie stretching in front of the huge glass windows that lead to the backyard. Richie had told him shirts would get more and more pointless as summer came running at them. Eddie had kept his real thought- Richie shouldn't wear shirts ever, actually- to himself, instead just scowling. 

The worst part wasn't even the unbelievable blue balls. It was the sappy shit that really bit Eddie in the ass. The warm, slow-spreading burst of feeling in his chest when Richie ruffled his hair in a way that was more affectionate than seeking to annoy. How pride seemed to leak out of his own grin when he really, really got Richie going, snorting his stupid braying laugh and thumping himself in the chest. 

Or even when the sun had set and they were quiet, sat at opposite ends of the couch with the fan swirling above them, and Eddie found something in him longed to close that gap. To climb into Richie's lap and lean into his chest. Listen to the thump of his heartbeat. Even if it got so far into summer that he melted into the couch cushions. 

And then he felt so sweaty and warm that he had to call it quits. 

When Eddie gets back to the house, it becomes apparent that the run barely helped. He stands in the garage, facing the driveway, and does some cool-down stretches, wrapping his hands around his ankles. He’s muttering to himself- it’s fine, you’ve been here a month, he’s seen a million of your attacks and he was just being a good friend, like he used to be when he sat with you on the rocks by the quarry while your lungs felt like they were drowning in the cold water- but it isn’t helping. The tension is still there, taking over his whole body, like an elastic band around a kids finger gun, pulled with painful kinetic energy, waiting for the finger twitch that breaks it. 

He doesn’t realise the door at the back, leading into the kitchen, is open. And he also doesn’t realise that Richie’s sat at the island with his laptop, looking- staring- at the running shorts he’s sweating in. Until, of course, he stands back up and turns, and they make direct eye contact. 

It would be stupid of Eddie to assume that Richie didn’t have some kind of feelings for him. As behind as he was, he knew what he had meant in the sewers, knew what was hidden behind Richie’s frantic worrying. The scariest thing was that Eddie wanted it, too- that terrified the fuck out of him. Part of him was aware of the fact that all he had to do was reach out and grab it. Grab what he wanted. 

That was the worst part. 

“Damn, are those the same shorts you wore when you were thirteen? They show your balls, man. Just got an X-rated eyeful Kaspbrak, haven’t had the honour since the last time I visited your mom,” Richie comments as he walks in, but Eddie can see straight through it. 

He likes to think he’s good at reading Richie. He can see right through the slight nervous waver in his voice, the way he twists his expensive watch around his wrist. He knows he was caught, he knows Eddie saw him- it’s even in the slight hunch of his shoulders as he shifts in his seat. He’s nervous, his lips curled up in what would look like a grin, if he didn’t know him so well that he could see the panic in the stiffness of the left corner of his upper lip. Richie’s smile is usually easy, loose- makes him look like a frog it’s so free and wide. He envies that a little. 

It’s like Eddie’s senses are tuned perfectly to every single strange Tozierism that normal people would see right past.  
It feels like an honour, to know him so well- and he isn’t much different from the scrawny, buck-toothed kid that used to wrestle Eddie in the grass, when he forgot he was supposed to have a pollen allergy, and his heart would speed up until it felt like it was going to burst. 

“Don’t look at my nuts then, dickwad,” Eddie replies. “Perv.”

“It’s not pervy when you walk around with them hanging out your shorts for the whole world to see. I bet everyone in the neighbourhoods had an eyeful of Kaspbrak dick. Do you even wear underwear?”

“Yes I wear underwear! Not that it’s any of your business, unless you pay me.”

“How much?” 

Richie’s smirking at him over the top of his half-closed laptop, now. He’s leaning right into Eddie’s space as he fills up his water bottle again. Eddie feels the air around him cracking expectantly, and something about the look in his eyes sends zaps of electricity down his spine. It slams into his tailbone until he can feel it in his legs. There’s some kind of challenge in the curl of Richie’s mouth, and he wants to rip it open and taste the back of his teeth. 

He blinks, and then sets his jaw, meeting Richie’s gaze with his own heated glare. 

“You couldn’t afford it,” he bites back, and feels every syllable in his body. 

“I’m a moderately rich man, Eds.”

His head swirls, and the world tilts sideways. He’s a rubber band again. A shaken bottle of Coke. Everything is snapping and crackling and popping and he feels sort of like a Rice Krispies advert. Richie just keeps smirking up at him- like he’s daring him to make a move. Like he wants him to. 

God, does he want to. 

He doesn’t, though. Because the thought of it turns his stomach, and he can feel the creature in his chest stir. If it wakes up, he’ll start wheezing again. He knows this. But the obsessive urge to poke until it does tugs at his insides. It’s a challenge, and Eddie’s a sucker for a challenge, especially with Richie. Overthinking punches him square in the chest, so he steps back. He has to. The tension is strangling him, and the sun is making him delirious- how could he even consider that?

“Piss off, Richie. Keep slacking and you’ll be a poor man,” he says, and then turns to go and shower. 

He does his best overthinking in the shower. And he has...business. In there.


	2. on the edge of living

It doesn’t get any cooler, but then neither do Eddie’s showers. And neither does the burning spring coil in his body. It’s been seven weeks, and being around Richie is still suffocating and electrifying all at once. 

It would be easier, perhaps, if he wasn’t also in his house. It’s hard to escape the crackling in his veins when he’s surrounded by so much Richie it’s like he’s swimming in it. The living room especially reeks of him. His steel and glass coffee table is stacked with notebooks of all sizes and colours, some patterned in ways that give Eddie headaches- they’re all ridiculous, and completely empty. Richie just buys them because he likes them, and Eddie wants to bite him when he explains. The disastrously mis-matched jumble of cushions and blankets is so annoyingly adorable that he wants to shred the disgusting fabric to pieces. There’s not a single common theme- not even a consistent colour scheme- in the whole room. And he’s got a ‘World’s Worst Grandma’ mug in the centre of the table, filled with stolen pens. 

It’s embarrassing how fake Eddie’s badgering about it is. 

He still sits, curled up against the right arm of the faux leather couch, amongst the disorganised mess. He sits there because Richie stretches out on the left side, his feet on top of a wobbling pile of notebooks. They’re watching Shaun of the Dead and drinking freezing cold fruit cider. Eddie had protested, but Richie’s almost as stubborn as he is.

“This movie fucking sucks, Rich,” he mutters, pressing the lip of the bottle against his bottom lip, rolling his eyes at the snorting noise the idiot makes.

“You fucking suck,” he shoots back. 

“Your face fucking sucks.”

“Real mature, Eds.”

“Oh yeah, because you’re known for being mature. Fucking asshole.”

Maybe he’s feeling brave, or maybe it’s the liquid courage in the form of strawberry and lime cider, but he shifts in his seat. He twists. Stretching his legs across the couch and slouching slightly, he manages to lift his socked foot and kick Richie’s glasses off his face.

Like he used to. When he muscled his way into the hammock, because it used to ache when Richie wasn’t paying attention. When he got too invested in his new comic book and didn’t look up at Eddie while he tried to annoy Stan. He was so desperate to have Richie’s stupid coke-bottle glasses glint at him that he’d make up some time limit on the hammock. Just because he couldn’t go three seconds without Trashmouth Tozier’s stupid nicknames, and his dumb laugh, and how he used to shove Eddie around like he didn’t care that he was supposed to be made of porcelain. 

By the way Richie’s jaw sets, Eddie thinks he must remember too. They don’t talk about it. But he knows. 

“Seriously? Are you 12?”

Eddie laughs a little, and then taps his cheek with his foot, feeling that thing crawling up his insides again. That terrible craving. It scares him so much. But he can’t stop himself. He does it a second time, and that really sets Richie off. 

“Oh, you’re on, you little shit!” He shouts, laughing already, and grabs Eddie by the ankles. 

So they wrestle, like they used to. Eddie’s glad running is good for his blood pressure because Richie starts saying something about old-age back pain a few minutes in. He’s not really listening. He’s more focused on the fact that Richie’s grabbing at his kicking legs, elbowing him lightly in the face, and it feels like how he imagines being tasered would feel. Like bone-snapping electricity, everywhere he touches. It’s glorious and terrifying, as if he’s stood too close to a Losers Club late night clubhouse fire and the dense black smoke is filling him up. He’s choking on it. His sinuses are full of the smell, of the fog, and he thinks it’s going to die if he doesn’t move. But the warmth at the very heart of it is so welcoming he can only move closer. 

He thinks that, if he were a braver man, he could make his move here. But there isn’t enough time for calculation. Especially not when Richie’s crushing weight rolls off him and onto the floor with a small thud and a groan. 

“I win!” Eddie shouts, the words fitting wrong in his mouth, the blood in his veins boiling and travelling much further down than he’s paying attention to. 

“You ass,” Richie mumbles from the floor. “You’re paying my damn medical bill. We don’t all still have the body of a toddler, you dick!”

He turns over and grabs Eddie’s ankle, and Eddie can feel his whole being vibrating. He sits up properly and bends down to help him back up. And then kicks him right back down. 

“Say I’m average size and I’ll help you up.”

Maybe he is a braver man. 

Richie looks at him, glasses knocked sideways, like he knows. Like he has some kind of x-ray vision and he can see the blood rushing and fizzing through Eddie’s body. Like he can read his mind. Of course he knows. He slides his tongue across his bottom lip and shakes his head, that same burning smirk on his face. Eddie’s on fire. 

“I’m not saying that. You’re a no-good short-ass bitch. I’ll just live here.”

“Say it!” Eddie insists, kicking him lightly again. 

“Never!”

“Say it!”

“Make me!”

He’s not a braver man. He doesn’t know why, but that knocks all the fight out of him. Whatever switch had flipped had been turned back off. He stops feeling electric and starts feeling like brittle, old stone. Like he's crumbling. Like the creature in his body had finally hooked it's claws onto his ribs and is shaking them hard enough to kill him. The burning's gone, and he's cold all over. Something in his brain rattles, stammering to wake up, and he's suddenly full of fear. 

It jerks him forward, onto his feet. What the hell is he doing? Wrestling, teasing, with all his blood rushing South to his dick and leaving his brain empty. He's being weird. He doesn't feel warm and sticky with sweat anymore. Eddie shudders and stares at the TV without seeing it. He doesn't hear Richie, when he asks if he's okay- asks why he looks like he's seen a flashers ghost. 

He leaves him on the floor, stepping over his legs to the sliding glass doors and stepping outside. 

There's no cooling air to help. It feels almost anticlimactic, stepping onto the small concrete square, into the humid darkness. The sweat on his skin has cooled despite the humidity. Eddie shivers, cold to the bone in an internal and agonizing way. He wraps his arms around himself and breathes. It’s hollow, but it’s more panic than fabricated asthma. Numb, he sits crossed-legged at the end of the pool in Richie’s garden. He hadn’t been in it. Something about bacteria, and his skin being too sensitive to survive chlorine. He can barely make out the stars, light pollution snuffing out their shine before the reflection hits the water- but he can see himself. And he hates it. His chest rattles and his heart speeds up, tripping over inside his ribcage.

That thing inside him is going to kill him, Eddie thinks, and it’s strangely comforting. He’d rather it put him out of his misery than force him to live this uneasy existence. Where the mere touch of his best friend (since he was twelve) felt like taking a match to a trail of gasoline, and burning down a building. He doesn’t look like him. He leans right over, clammy hands clutching the lip of the pool, terrified of falling in- and really looks at himself, for the first time since…

He doesn't know. 

He really doesn’t like what he sees. 

He’s so caught up in inspecting himself- the frown creases around his lips, the shiny scar tissues down his cheek, and the thin, stark frown line between his thick brows- and hating every second of it (you look so sickly, dear, maybe you should stay home from work today- you look ill, Eddiebear), he doesn’t even notice when Richie slides the glass doors open and sits on the other side of the pool. 

Eddie feels Richie’s stare before he even looks up, and feels like a deer in headlights when he does. There’s something about his expression that makes Eddie feel seen, known, in a mortifying way. It’s something he’s never seen before- not on Richie, anyway. 

He thinks it might be pity. Poor Eddie, he thinks bitterly, poor, startled Eddie, who can’t even be touched without freaking out, without that hunger inside consuming him. He hates the distance between them. The width of the pool, the gap that he knows Richie’s just waiting on him to close. The cold in his skeleton is getting unbearable. The fire’s gone, and he’s left with this freezing, pathetic want. 

Richie has always run warm. Ever since they were kids. Eddie remembers hiding in the clubhouse during an unexpected storm, where rain crushed their small bodies in needle-like sheets. He’d started rambling about pneumonia, and his mother, panicked and raspy with that crackling in his windpipe that preceded an asthma attack. He’d been shivering so hard he felt like his skeleton was trying to escape his skin. Richie had noticed, grabbed his squirming frame, and held him close in the hammock. In front of everyone. Unashamed, helpful, and so warm it was blistering. Whether it was the body heat, or the bright red of his cheeks, he didn’t know- but Eddie had never felt that warm before, and he hadn’t since. 

He’s wondering if it would still feel like that if he gave in, folded himself into Richie’s corners, made his own private little home in the sweltering blanket of his body heat, when Richie finally takes a hammer to the delicate glass silence. 

“What’s wrong, Eds?” 

He’s still staring at him, with that small, concerned frown. Worry is the kind of attention Eddie is used to. But it’s not the same smothering, choking worry- not with Richie. He sounds upset. He sounds like he cares. It makes Eddie’s hands itch, wanting to reach out, touch and fold. Fit perfectly into Richie’s space. 

“You know what’s wrong,” Eddie says, unfairly, and feels a flash of anger. He gnaws on his bottom lip. “You know. We haven’t talked about it. Don’t play dumb.”

'Isn’t it eating you alive? It’s eating me alive. Can’t you feel it?'

Eddie finally let’s himself look at Richie again, and feels winded. The pool's blue dances on his face, different to the morning sunshine. It pushes against his jaw. Reflections of waves light him up, eerie, like a movie scene. He’s drenched in it. Shifting neon blue. It’s beautiful. It’s deadly. Eddie’s going to drown. 

“Then let’s talk about it, dude,” Richie replies- like it’s simple. 

It occurs to Eddie, with the force of a car crash, that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s tired of trying to talk about things. He’s tired of words sticking in his throat. He doesn’t want to. He wants to swerve, yank the steering wheel left, slam against a railing- off a cliff. He wants to dive down, head-first. Just to feel the sting of mangled bones, torn membrane, sliced-open veins and bursting blood vessels. To taste the acid of burning destruction. To make a mess. He’s always been a clean, safe, man. A tidy little boy. Don’t make a mess, Eddie. 

He’s so hungry for it. He’s staring at the bruise. He’s going to stab it, open what should only be a sensitive patch of damaged vessel, and drown in the bright red consequences. He imagines it. Standing up, rounding the corner of the pool, and shoving his hands under the ugliest shirt he’s ever seen. Light Richie on fire with his fingerprints. Drop the match into the gasoline. 

It’s horrible. Destructive. Desperate. 

He doesn’t move. The air becomes awkward. Richie’s expression doesn’t flinch, fixed and waiting on Eddie. Waiting for him to say something. Do something. Make a move. 

He must be tired of waiting, because he seems to take it upon himself to move. He gets up and stands still. His toes are on the edge. Eddie’s horrified, meeting Richie’s eyes as he flings his arms out. The grin on his face gets under his skin, bright and unabashed and ready. So familiar. Like before he tells a really good joke, when it sets behind his teeth. It’s the look he always has before he makes Eddie laugh. And then he starts leaning forward, smacking into the water with a splash. 

Richie was right- Eddie laughs so hard he chokes, and the awkward tension vanishes. He starts feeling warm again, thawing his aching skeleton, despite the fact he’s now drenched, too. Richie’s head pops up right in front of him. He’s still snorting, laughing until he can’t breathe, until tears slide down his cheeks. His stomach hurts. He feels Richie’s hands wrap around his ankles, tugging him over. 

“No! Don’t you fucking dare! Rich-” 

It’s too late. He hits the water with a furious shriek. And almost drowns Richie as revenge. The fire comes back as they splash each other, but it doesn’t feel so much like dying. It feels like being on the edge of living. Because he’ll always end up in the water eventually- if Richie does it first. 

The countdowns ticking again, he can feel it.


	3. blue plastic chair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last part of this chapter is kind of nsfw - our mans got morning wood and shit. richie's his usual disgusting self, but i don't go into much detail. the sex dream is implied. if you wish to skip it, it starts right at the very end- under the lines (----).  
> if u like it n want warnings as to when chapters will be going up then u can follow me @letskillrudie on twt.  
> cool.

Myra calls at 5 am, three days after the pool incident, and Eddie almost chokes. He knew that this was coming, obviously. Their split had been mutual. She didn’t like him keeping secrets, and he didn’t like women, so it seemed futile to keep pretending. It was so much harder to pretend, now. 

“Do you know what time it is?” 

He gets out of bed and walks barefoot into the kitchen, only wearing the boxers he’d slept in. It isn’t like Richie’s awake. It’s still ridiculously humid, suffocating despite the fact the kitchen tiles are cold. He flicks on the coffee machine. 

“Eight in the morning,” she answers, and it’s so strange to hear her voice again. It’s like a punch in the gut. 

“Time difference, Marty,” Eddie grumbles, “it’s five am.” 

“Oh. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He wasn't asleep, anyway. Not properly. Sleep was rare for him. He kept having nightmares- which made him sound three fucking years old. Dreams of thick black gunk, clogging his throat, dripping onto his clothes. That sick, gasoline smell. Not dying, because he’s already dead. He’s been dead a long time. Dead and full of gross slime that, no matter how much he sputters and spits, pours out of him like a broken fountain. 

He runs his hands through his hair and sighs. 

“It’s fine. What do you want?” 

It sounds harsher than he means it to, but he can’t take it back. He turns to the big glass windows and scowls at the already lightning sky. The sun would be up soon- up with a vengeance. It’s going to be a hot one tomorrow, Richie had said, in a stupid ‘weatherman’ voice. He said the character's name was Willy, and Eddie had shoved him so hard, he’d knocked over his glass of lemonade. He feels his lips twitch with the ghost of a smile as he thinks about it. 

“You’re going to need to come back soon. We have a divorce to work through, Eddie. I want it over with just as much as you do, but we don’t all have celebrity friends in the hills to run to.”

Oh, yeah- Myra. 

That was a low blow, he thinks- but a fair one. His head is too foggy to think properly. She's right, he knows she is. He takes a moment of silence when his coffee finishes. 

“When? I’ll have to book a flight. Just say when.”

He tries to imagine going back. The uncomfortable, stiff suits. The sleet-grey of the entire city. The constant hustle and bustle of the streets, people always in a rush. Fleeing from one desperate location to the next and never stopping to breathe in between. He’s gotten a lot better at breathing since he moved away. 

But it’s inevitable. It always had been. Right from the moment he shook himself back to reality on the doorstep of Richie’s three bedroom Spanish contemporary. 

She lists some dates and times, and Eddie says he’ll check flights and text her, and he can already feel that numbing dread in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t say goodbye when he hangs up the phone. 

There’s no point trying to go back to sleep, he decides. He unlocks the sliding glass doors and crosses the garden to his designated blue plastic chair. It’s so warm. He’s so sticky. 

The frustration he’d been holding back on the phone bubbled in his stomach. He didn’t want to go back. Going back, even if it was to get officially divorced, would break the spell. The hazy, comforting little world he had created in LA, with Richie. Life right now felt delicate. Like if he moved too suddenly, it’d shatter. The illusion would be broken. Going back to NYC would ruin the whole thing. 

“Eds?” 

Eddie jumps so hard he chokes on his coffee and spins around. The chair wobbles. But it’s just Richie- in spiderman boxers that are definitely not comfortably fitting, and one of his horrific shirts. Open, showing off his stomach and his chest. He’s rubbing his eyes, his glasses pushed back into his hair. The kitchen light is on and surrounding him in a golden halo. He’s beautiful. 

And he’s sniffling like he’s been crying.

“Fucking hell, Richie. You scared the shit out of me. What's up?” 

“What's up with me?” He repeats, his voice gravelly from sleep, making something deep inside Eddie stir. “What’s up with you, man? You’re the one sat outside, dick out, at like- 5 am.”

“My dick is not- ugh, I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” 

It’s ridiculous, but he feels better already, just with Richie there. He watches him sit in the orange chair opposite. He’s definitely been crying. 

“Damn, and I was hoping to workshop a new bit.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says, and then leans forward. “What’s wrong, Rich? You look like you’ve been crying for hours.”

“Oh, uh…”

He seems small, all of a sudden. Which is stupid, because he’s six foot one, and built like a brick house. But he seems to fold in on himself. Eddie has to resist saying something about his posture. 

He doesn’t like seeing him look so upset. So scared. 

“Nightmares?” Eddie offers, shifting, knitting his brows together in concern.

“Yeah,” he replies, sighing a little. He shakes his head until his glasses fall down onto his nose. It’s charming. “What about you, huh? Why are you up?”

“Real-life nightmare, Myra called.”

“Oh, fun.” 

“So fun.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Eddie turns his mug in his hands. It says ‘worlds best wine aunt,’ and it isn’t his usual one. Richie’s collection of terrible novelty mugs concerns him. He shifts in his seat. The quiet isn’t comfortable. It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff- like he’s about to jump into the quarry- and everything melts into white noise, until all he can hear is the rush of blood in his veins and the hammering of his heart. He swallows. 

“I get nightmares too. All the time. Myra woke me from one.” 

Richie doesn’t say anything for what feels like years. He stretches his legs until their feet are touching. Eddie slides his over the top of Richie’s, and it’s disorientating how such a small point of contact has electricity dancing up his skin again. 

“I keep having this one where- it’s like the puppet of myself I saw in the house. My mouth’s all stitched up and I can’t speak. I can barely move. You’re usually there, and I’m trying to tell you...something, but I can’t. I’m stuck.” 

Eddie notices he’s shaking a second later. Shivering. It’s not because he’s cold, obviously. He swallows again and gets to his feet, putting his mug on the floor. Richie stares blankly at the grass. He’s frowning. The silence is heavier now. 

He walks behind Richie’s chair and, slowly, wraps his arms around his shoulders from behind. Bending his knees a little, he rests his chin on the nest of dark curls. He’s so focused on his breathing it feels like he’s going to die. What if Richie shoves him off? Tells him he’s being weird? 

He doesn’t. He leans back, and then starts shaking harder. Eddie's knees ache immediately, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t move when Richie starts sobbing, even though it makes his chest hurt. Different from the stabbing, pre-asthma-attack chest pain he’s used to. It feels like being stabbed right in between the ribs. Ripped open. It feels like how books described heartbreak. 

A few moments pass, and Richie shakes him off. He stands with his hands awkwardly clasped together, not knowing what to do with himself. Until, of course, Richie turns his chair around and holds his arms out. Eddie folds without thinking. 

He was right. He fits perfectly there- his face against Richie’s broad chest, arms around his middle. It’s suffocatingly warm, but he doesn’t care. He could stay there forever. He’d happily melt like this, dissolve into the folds of Richie’s arms. He’s stopped crying now. Neither of them make any effort to move. 

It doesn’t feel like a car crash, like Eddie was expecting. It might, if he moves, but for now the world doesn’t burst into flames. He doesn’t start to crumble, or start to fizz and pop and explode, like he always envisioned when he imagined this. When he imagined giving in to the painful need to be closer. To be as close as possible. To press himself into Richie’s space, into his skin. He can hear his heartbeat, faintly, through his thick dark chest hair. He can hear it. That thing that keeps him alive, keeps him smiling and laughing and telling his stupid jokes. Eddie knows it’s fragile, though- even as it beats strong in Richie’s ribcage. It’s easily bruised, scarred and sensitive and hidden behind walls of sarcasm. 

He understands, but he’d like to hold it, someday. Give it a place alongside his own. Even if the process does kill him. 

\--------------------

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but Eddie wakes up on the couch with a blanket draped over him, soaking in his own sweat. He’d been dreaming. Not a bad one, particularly, but it’s already fading. 

Hands. Heavy breathing. Red, swollen lips. Skin against his teeth. Thick laughter, quiet and special. Closeness.

The sun shines white-hot through the glass doors. He sits up, hair practically dripping. 

“Fucking gross,” he mutters, running his hands through the thick locks. “I need a haircut.” 

“Well, well, well. Welcome to the land of the living, Sleeping Beauty.”

Richie’s stood at the island, grinning. There's a certain tiredness to it, though. Eddie wonders if the 5am scene had been a dream- if he’d merely fabricated the warmth of his skin, the comforting heaviness of his arms. It seemed likely. The dark rings under Richie’s glasses are the only solid indication that it happened. 

Something in him shifts. It had shifted last night, really. Or the early hours of that morning. He just hadn’t been paying attention. It stirs in his chest. But his head feels too sleep heavy, too foggy, so he just gets to his feet and stretches. 

And Richie dissolves into peels of laughter. 

“What? Oh- Fuck!” 

“Dude, I can basically see your dick!”

“No you fucking can’t, asshole. Oh my GOD-” 

He’d forgotten he was still just in his underwear. Which wouldn’t be so bad, if he hadn’t been having that dream. He grabs the blanket and attempts to hide what he knows has already been seen. 

“Eddie’s got a boner,” Richie chimes, singing, with that grin on his face that makes Eddie itch. “Coulda warned me you were packing. I feel inferior now. I’m gonna have to re-establish my position as alpha male in the house.”

Eddie wants to smack him. Wants to shove him into the kitchen counter. Bite him until he shuts up. The thought doesn’t help his situation. He flushes, feeling the warmth of embarrassment crawling up the back of his neck. He’s bright red. 

“Fuck off. Move.”  
He shoves past Richie. Their arms touch, briefly, and Richie reaches to ruffle his hair. Eddie moves so fast, he pulls. Accidentally. But it sends a zap of electricity straight through his body. It catches every nerve. It’s ridiculous- fumbling and clumsy and so, so embarrassing. He ducks to get away. He’s going to pass out, he thinks. He’s warm all over, and he can feel the pressure building in his head. That spring coil inside tightening. He’s going to snap. The elastic’s going to break and he’s going to explode. Crash the fucking car and shove Richie against the surface of the island. Dig his nails and his teeth in, because he’s starving, itching for it. The fuse is going to blow. 

He locks his bedroom door behind him and sits, his whole body buzzing with electricity, on the edge of his bed- thinking of hands, and heavy breathing, and skin. He’s going to die in this fucking house. In the sweltering LA heat. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to be able to keep ducking, locking the door, giving in only to his right hand. He’d never really been one for self preservation or impulse control. 

It isn't really a question of if, anymore, but a question of when.


End file.
